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“Then why do you still hate her?”
“I don’t hate her.”
“Did you love her?” I have to know, even if he won’t ever be able, or willing, to apply the word to me. Maybe especially because of that. “Were you ever in love with her?”
“No.”
My relief leaks out of me on a pent-up breath.
“I cared for her, though. What’s more, I trusted her.” His jaw seems tense, though whether in reluctance to speak about her or in memory of what happened between them, I can’t be sure. “I trusted Kathryn at a time when I had nothing else to give. She betrayed me. I don’t allow anyone the chance to do it twice.”
There is a vulnerable quality to this admission, but I don’t dare take it as weakness. Not when his eyes are cold and dark with meaning. As much as he is sharing a piece of himself with me, it is also a warning.
It’s one I respect, because when it comes to trust and the penalty for breaking it, Nick and I are very much alike.
It’s a struggle to hold his penetrating stare, especially when the weight of my own lies and evasions are pressing down upon me even more now. He blinks, and some of the edge is gone from his gaze.
“I shouldn’t have left you at the curb the way I did. Seeing Kathryn made me unfit company. We’d had such a good day together up until then, I didn’t want to ruin it by bringing my shitty attitude home with you. Instead, I worked off my aggression on some contract negotiations back at the office.”
He caresses the side of my head, trailing his hand over my unbound hair. When his fingers spear into the loose strands to cup my nape, the feeling is so warm and possessive, I can’t hold back my small, pleasured moan. “If you had come home with me, I doubt your shitty attitude would’ve lasted for long.”
A faint smirk tugs at the corner of his sinful mouth. “Is that right?”
I nod, falling deeper under the spell of his touch. “Next time, talk to me. You could’ve worked off some of that aggression on me.”
A low groan rumbles in his throat. The tension I feel in him shifts instantly into something deeper, something needful and hungry. He descends on my mouth. Fevered, starving, he kisses me as if we haven’t been in each other’s arms for days, not just a few hours.
When he finally breaks contact, I’m gasping and so turned on I can hardly see straight. His mouth trails over to the sensitive spot beneath my earlobe before moving down the side of my neck and into the curve of my shoulder.
I startle when he gives me a sharp nip.
“That’s for not telling me where you were this afternoon.” When he draws back to look at me, his handsome face is taut with demand—and desire. “Don’t make me worry about your safety ever again. And never withhold your needs from me. Understood?”
I slide my hands under his untucked shirt. “Yes, sir.”
Raw sexual energy pours off him as I stare up at him and murmur those words. We’ve only played at these games a few times, enough for me to know the power my submission holds for him. His erection is already rampant, but it surges even firmer, as rigid as a thick column of stone where it presses against my abdomen.
“Baby
,” he snarls, and then he takes my mouth again, his tongue thrusting as his hands move expediently to strip me of my blouse and bra. When my breasts are bared to him, he scoops them into his palms, kneading them harshly, his touch as primal as his kiss. His mouth is hot on mine, then savage on my breasts as he licks and suckles and fondles me into a state of near boneless arousal.
I fumble with the buttons on his dress shirt, but I’m too slow. My movements are impeded by the slick, hot need that’s roaring through every fiber of my being. On a wordless sound of impatience, he rips the custom-made shirt off, sending buttons scattering.
My hands roam his smooth skin and firm musculature of his chest and abdomen. But it’s his cock I need in my hands even more. I wrap my hand over the solid ridge beneath the zipper of his suit pants, moaning when I feel his shaft jerk against my palm. A deep tremor answers in my core, setting my blood on fire.
“Oh, God, Nick. Please . . . “
My jeans and panties come off in the next instant. His hand goes between my thighs, nudging them wider. I cry out when his fingers glide into the wet seam of my sex. He torments my clit, his fingertips rubbing and flicking, knowing precisely how to make me burn. Pleasure spirals through me, sharp and white, ready to explode. I squirm on his hand, shameless in my need. When he enters me with two fingers, then another, I clutch his shoulders, needing something to hold on to as my orgasm twists with the first inklings of release.
He makes a low noise, somewhere between a chuckle and a growl. “I shouldn’t make it so easy for you.”
I’m panting, on the verge of coming when he suddenly takes his touch away. He steps back a pace and looks at me with burning, hooded eyes.
“After the way you made me worry today, I should make you beg.” His voice is edged with a dangerous, carnal authority.
My clit throbs as though on command.
“I will,” I gasp, wholly unashamed. With him, I’m willing to do anything. And he knows it. “If that’s what you want, I’ll beg.”
